On The River
by LittlePorcelainDoll
Summary: The gas cans sit neatly on the floor. The piano sings its last song and Spades Slick knows without a doubt, he's not going to get much sleep tonight. *Humanized SS/SnOwman with hints of SS/DD on the side. Warnings listed inside.*


**Title: ** On The River**  
Rating:**** M** Heed the rating kiddies. THAR BE **PORNS** IN THIS HERE FIC.  
**Warning(s):** Some spoilers, cursing, use of alcohol and tobacco, tame violence, arson, negative destructive relationships, the angst that comes with it, and (a large amount of) smut.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**Character(s)/Parings: **Established Spades Slick/Snowman with hints of Spades Slick/Diamond Droog  
**Setting:** This takes place sometime **before** Spades Slick's introduction and the events that led up Lord English's mansion. This is also a **human AU** since I don't know all the proper wording for – lessay _stuff_ – for whatever it is they are. This is pretty much porn without plot after all.  
**Notes:** This is my interpretation of Spades Slick in a realistic, less humorous/wisecracking setting. Call it creative licence. "Headcannon" or whatever. After much careful consideration, I decided **not** to use the second person perspective Spades Slick/Jack Noir is known for. While that style suits the short narrative Andrew Hussie uses for the comic, I felt it didn't flow well with the long and detailed narrative I intended to write. Love it, flame it, I don't mind. Enjoy.

* * *

It was a slow night. The tables are empty, the band's just packed up, there's no more than a handful of stragglers still hanging around at the bar and he thinks there might be trouble when she strolls through the doors.

Heels click over the tiled floors; hips swaying slowly with a sensuous grace that captured the attention of several onlookers. She was temptation personified all wrapped up in skin tight, velvet black evening wear and his eyes follow her all the way to the bar as she takes a seat. All it took was one cigarette and two chumps rush for the chance to light it first just for the excuse to watch the smoke curl from her parted lips.

A small lick of annoyance runs down his spine when her eyes meet his from across the room and Spades Slick's not sure if he's going to get much sleep tonight.

Most nights, the place was still packed at this hour. Smoke curls and twists in the dim light and it gives everything this cover; a shadow to hide in where nothing is really clear so you can imagine time moves a bit slower and have license to venture things you normally wouldn't. Or maybe that's just the booze. Any sin's excusable here and he wouldn't have it any other way.

This is the kind of place when you win, you win big. Where you can be anyone and nobody at all and disappear along with the smoke when the night's over. It's where angels can be the cards in your hand and demons no more than a bad roll of the dice. A place where lies and promises never really matter and life is easy and play pretend is the only rule as long as you keep on winning. Here, anything can happen and everything goes.

In the dim light, a quick glance between shaded eyes was a silent understanding. Promises are made over vodka shots and too loud music, promises that meant that tonight you wouldn't be alone and everyone loves everyone at least for a little while. Deprivation never looked as beautiful as it did here where skirts are short and the dames are easy. Where escape is cheap and comes in bottles and no one's ever more than one step away from taking things one step too far. For some, it's the best form of therapy.

For Spades Slick, it's so much more than that.

It was his empire. His life support; his medicine. His heaven and hell and he ruled them both. Just one of the many casinos, night clubs, and bars he rose from the ashes. And it all started with an idea born from bitter exile. An idea of a different man. A different name. A new city all of its own where no one had to bend the knee to anyone. And that idea grew. With time and with his reunited crew at his side, Slick carved himself a comfortable niche in the gambling business and not long after that, his notoriety washed over the city like midnight.

And the Midnight Crew was born.

For a long time, it was a utopia. A new bourgeoisie all of his own gutted from those that'd think they could take it from him. But like all things… it didn't last. Wealth and power walks hand in hand with the envy of would be enemies. And not long after, The Felt started moving their pieces across the chessboard, lead by some bastard named Lord English who doesn't even have the balls to show his face.

And now... it looks like English decided to move his _Queen _into play.

Slick has no idea what English is hoping to achieve by sending this broad over so often. Whatever it is, it's bound to be bad news. The low murmur of her voice carries across the room as she hails the bartender. Gin and tonic. Half a lime. Anything and everything she does feels like a jab right in the eye and there's nothing he can do about it as she sits in his bar like she owns the joint.

His fingers twitch, itching to wrap themselves around that pretty throat of hers and fuck, he wants to see her scratch and squirm with her last dying breath... but not today. It's never today. Instead, they stab like daggers unto the slick black and ivory keys of a grand piano, biting the inside of his cheek until the taste of copper curbs his anger.

She takes her sweet time, of course. A lone fingertip tracing the edge of her glass as she exchanges a few words with her bar mates. He's waiting for her and she knows it. Everything she's ever done is for the sole purpose of digging under his skin. It's like a game they play where only she can see the rules. A game of unsaid insults and threats. A game of dominance and defiance. A never ending stalemate where all he wants to do is break the board over his knee and listen to the sounds she makes as she chokes on the pieces even if it means damning them all to oblivion.

Fucking bitch.

And fuck him too for liking it more than he should.

With a practised flick of a wrist, she throws back the glass and finishes the last of her drink. Her eyes drift back to his as she slips off her stool and slowly makes her way past the empty tables to meet him. It's about fucking time. Out the corner of his eye, Droog nods in his direction, a silent question, and Slick replies with subtle nod of his own. The man has eyes like a hawk and watches everything; neurotic to the extreme. Droog goes back to his solitary game of pool and she walks past him undisturbed. Droog couldn't stop her anyway even if he wanted to. The broad holds the world at ransom and wears their mortality like a shield.

Bold as brass, she perches on the edge of his piano, a hint of thigh just barely hidden from view. Her dress fits like a glove – Stitch's handiwork – and Slick isn't sure if he appreciates the style or what's under it. Her hat's tilted back just..._so._ Curls frame her face, bob cut sharply along her jaw and every bit as black as her dress, her eyes, her lips, her heart and for _one fucking_ _moment… _

… he thinks that if he could only trace the outline of her lips with his, they could be perfect for each other. That he could be her King and kill no one in the process.

"Light," she says by way of greeting. It's not a request. It's an order.

And the moment is over as soon as she opens her mouth and Slick remembers why he wants to piss in it so much.

"Shoulda brought your own fuckin' matches," he snarls back, but before he knows it, the idle notes fade into silence when his fingers leave the keys and fishes into a breast pocket for matches he keeps just for her. Fuck it. He's doing it already. Might as well let her have it.

She leans close and her eyes catch his, cold and indifferent, as the match strikes a flame. The glowing ember casts her face into sharp relief; the curve of her lips. The line of her jaw. The hollow of her throat and vaguely… he wants to taste her skin. Smoke rises between them in perfect little rings and he can't help but watch the way her cheeks pull in, chest rising, and the slow part of her lips as she exhales. A smile curves the corner of her lips as she leans away and for some unexplainable reason, he feels like he lost an argument he didn't know about. He silently hopes no one's keeping score.

"Play something for me," she says, and he hates the things her voice does to him. It's low, rich like whiskey over ice and bittersweet like a hat full of black licorice. And Slick wonders what he always does: What sounds she'll make when he finally drives a knife though her chest all the way up to his wrist.

But _music_... he could do it without complaint. And gladly. If he plays loud enough, it'll drown the sound of her voice. His fingers skim lightly over the keys before pounding out a sharp, loud and upbeat melody and Slick allows the rarest of grins to stretch across his face. He knows it's not what she wanted and it's _hardly_ his style, but anything to challenge the universe was alright by him.

The universe remained unfazed. Stiletto heels bouncing to the rhythm. "I see you have a new piano. This'll make what, the fifth one this month?"

Slick fumbles a few notes.

_She knows_. Fuck.

"What ya keep comin' around for, Snow?" he says to the keys. "You waltz into _my_ joint, get sauced up on _my_ booze, we go through the same shit, and what for? Ain't the pleasure of my company, that's for damn sure."

"I wouldn't say that, Spades. You can be… charming when you want to be," she says silkily and smoothly turns her body towards his. An off chord strikes through the music as her heel clicks down onto the keys, the other dragging slowly up his lapels until it sits on his shoulder and fuck, he should've known this would happen. "Why don't you play something we both like this time, hmm?"

The toe of her heel tips his hat off onto the floor. The last few notes fade away into silence. His slacks start to feel uncomfortably tight and he knows without a doubt he's already lost... and he _doesn't __care_. He'll play something alright. Play his tongue against the creamy white board of her leg right up to the apex of her thighs. Break that cool mask of hers until she bucks under his touch and moans with a whole different kind of music.

"Droog," Slick manages to say and he knows without having to look that he's got the other man's attention. "Get everybody outta here. We're closed."

His fingers pick idly at the keys and Slick manages just barely to restrain himself long enough until he picks out Droog's steady footsteps on their way out to lock the place up. As soon as the door clicks shut, he's on his feet and hooks her leg over his shoulder, teeth grazing the inside of her thigh until he hears the sweet music of her sighs. Her fingers rake through his hair as he hikes her dress higher, kissing and biting every exposed inch of skin as he goes.

"Tell me you hate me," he breathes into her skin. He had to hear it. He_ needs _to hear it. He's always fucking needed it. Now, yesterday, years ago, and he knows he always will.

"No talkin – " she begins to say, but her voice breaks when his tongue flicks over the dampness between her legs. The keys groan in protest under her heel and her back snaps into an arch as she grinds slowly into his mouth. "I hate you," she bites out, sounding well like she meant it, and he grins.

Satisfied with her response, he teases her swollen flesh a bit longer until she's a swampy, wet mess on the piano top. She gasps sharply when he pulls away and the dim light caught her face in that moment; hat askew, cheeks flushed, and he thinks this is what heaven must be like. Perfect. Beautiful. And it's all for him.

Rounding the piano, Slick slowly unzips his fly. No more talking. No more games or teasing. Nothing but her legs as they wrap around his waist. Her hips as they rise up to meet his. The taste of her skin when he bites down onto her bare shoulder as he buries himself inside her _and fuck_ – everything feels like too much not enough.

No thinking now. Just the taste of her skin under his tongue as he takes what he wants because life's only worth the pleasure you can take from it. Nothing mattered but taking what they wanted from each other; fighting each other in a new way and clawing off the layers to see new flaws and more reasons to hate.

The piano gives a shaky groan with each thrust and it's _not_ tender and it's _not_ slow or loving because they're neither of those things. It was a furious attack, bodies pressed together, no gentle caresses or soft lips, but brutal obsession. It's fitting, the violence. A way to remind them of the rage and the pain and hate that fuels them. When her nails carve into the back of his neck leaving marks he knows will be there long after she's gone, he'll have already have done the same thing; leaving bruises blooming in his wake like flowers.

Her moans are hot and hurried and her fingers dig into the collar before tearing it down past his shoulders, popping several buttons in the process. Slick barely even notices, mouth having closed over a breast he released from her top. She cries out her release and arches into him, nails breaking skin, muscles tugging in a delicious ripple and –

"_Fuck_," Slick groans into the hallow of her throat and he's not sure how much longer he can last only that he wants this to last forever.

His thrusts were getting jerky, his eyes are locked on her face, and he wants so badly to just… _kiss her._ Taste his name on her lips, swallow the music of her moans, and run his tongue along hers. But he doesn't. He never does. Instead, he loses himself completely and comes faster than he would like, but harder than he thought was possible.

The piano utters its last shaky note, the room quiet save for their panting breaths, and somewhere in the back of his mind... Slick wonders why she hasn't pushed him away yet. It's what she always does. Slick knows he's pushing his luck, but before he can stop himself, he kisses the line of her jaw and holds her closer.

"What're we doin', Snow?" He asks, just to say something – _anything_ at all.

"I don't know…" Her fingertips run over the fresh wounds criss-crossing his shoulders, as if admiring her work, and she laughs. "You're a good fuck, Spades. Let's not ruin it."

His lips are mere inches away from hers and for one wild moment, he wants to ask her to stay, even if it's just for another round in his bed. Part of him wanted to fuck all and trade the whole city just to have her stay at his side forever. Another, wanted to damn the whole word and slit her throat because he _can't_ have her. One day... he thinks he'll do just that.

But not today.

Today, he'll kiss her.

The moment his lips barely get the chance to brush against hers, her hand flies out and meets Slick's cheek with a resounding smack that rung throughout the club. "Don't do try that again," she says icily as she straightens her hat, and he hates her now more than ever.

"Get outta my bar," Slick says stiffly and sits down at his piano once more. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of his stung pride and kept it to himself. Instead, he takes it out on the piano; fingers licking up and down the keys in a red-hot rage. "Get out and don't fuckin' come back."

Another laugh and she tugs up her top, slipping off the piano all neat and fucking perfect like nothing had ever happened. "You say that every time, Spades. And every time… here we are."

It's the truth, they both know it, and he's got nothing left to say. She's the only constant thing in his life. The world turns and changes. Sometimes for the better. Often times for the worse. But she's always in it. Like a splinter stuck in the back of his thoughts, it only digs in deeper with every breath he takes. Tonight, she'll walk out of his life like she always does, but she'll be back. Maybe tomorrow night. Maybe next week. She always comes back.

Sometimes he's not sure if he dreads the day she won't be able to. Slick tries not to think about it.

"Goodnight, lover," he thinks she might have said, but Slick's too far gone to really care. The music drowns out the world – the universe. All thought and sound and by the time she's already gone, he hadn't even noticed the sound of her heels clicking away on the tiled floors.

Hours or maybe minutes pass, he couldn't be sure, and Slick finds a double shot of whiskey placed neatly in front of him. He knew without having to look at who put it there. The glass coaster was dead giveaway. The man's just as predictable as his wardrobe.

"Better keep these comin'," Slick sighs as Droog sits at his side.

"Already ahead of you," Droog nods and pours himself a glass.

The gas cans sit neatly on the floor. The piano sings its last song and Spades Slick knows without a doubt, he's not going to get much sleep tonight.

* * *

"What are you going to do when every music store in town runs out of pianos?" Droog says in his ear over the popping of the strings as they curl in the flames.

Its nearly three in the morning, Slick's just about as drunk as he'll ever be, and this piano makes the fifth one this month they've pushed out into the middle of the street and burned to cinders.

It lasted a whole week before Snow sat her filthy ass on it, tainting it for good. Slick couldn't play it again once she's touched it. It's easy to forget about her when she's not there, but after what went down this time – and the last four times – it stops being easy. Like the pain of a phantom limb, she's there riding him to heaven and hell whenever he sits at the bench. She's there bent over the keys whenever he strikes the first few notes. She's there on her knees as he grips the frame tightly. _She's there_. All the time.

Burning it is the only way to get rid of her ghost.

He shrugs, eyes on the flames, imagining the bitch writhing in it. "Get a new hobby maybe," he manages to say. "Thinkin' 'bout gettin' one of those... those..." He puts his thumb up to his mouth and wiggles his fingers, trying to recall the word.

"Trumpet," Droog supplies.

"Yeah, that. But, who knows? Maybe she'd wanna sit on that too," Slick snorts into the lip of his bottle and finishing it off. Knowing her, she'd rather fuck him with it too. "The bitch."

Droog steps closer and straightens Slick's lapels, a habit of his over the years, and his hands come to rest on his shoulders. "Maybe you've got to stop playing altogether, Jack."

The sound of his dead name on his voice caught Slick's attention and the dying firelight casts Droog's face into sharp relief; hard and stoic, cigarette hanging at the corner of his lips. The scent of his cologne mixes with the burning piano into something earthy like sandalwood or cedar. And Slick knows without having to ask, that Droog isn't talking about music. He's telling him to not see _her_ again.

"Maybe," Slick sighs, even though that wasn't the answer Droog wanted.

"Good," he nods, even though that wasn't the response he wanted to voice.

Both lied, and both of them knew it. They understood each other too well to pretend otherwise. Sometimes it's better that way.

"C'mon," Slick says finally as the flames finally burn down to embers. "I gotta another bottle with your name on it. It's about time I see you drunk off your ass for once, ya straight laced freak."

The barest of hint of a smile tugs at Droog's lips. "We'll see."

Without a second glance, they turn and leave the smouldering wreckage behind and Spades Slick knows with no uncertainty that he'll get a new one. When you're on the river and drawing thin, you've got to hold onto something when you've nothing else.

* * *

**Notes:** I know I said before on some other Homestuck fic I've done that I'll never touch the fandom again... welp. I lied. Gotta love a guy in a suit, amiright? Anyway, I'm just going to leave it like this for now because I might pick it up again and add another chapter since I kinda like the whole SS/DD ship. Not sure yet. Well, thanks for reading!


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